


The essence of Draco Malfoy

by MarigoldWritesThings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 8th year, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, after the war, polyjuice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 13:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13572009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarigoldWritesThings/pseuds/MarigoldWritesThings
Summary: Tumblr Prompt:The war has ended but things are still dark. Harry makes a plan to weed out the remnants of evil - but it involves Draco Malfoy, Polyjuice Potion, and more nerve than planning.What happens when he finds out he was wrong all along?





	The essence of Draco Malfoy

Brewing Polyjuice in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was, if not yet a tradition, then certainly Déjà vu. Harry, Ron and Hermione sat around watching as the sludgy, smelly potion bubbled lazily in the cauldron heated up with one of Hermione’s special portable flames. It flickered blue in the oncoming darkness and while definitely warm, it gave the place a sort of eerie look. 

Hermione muttered away to herself as she added the last scoop of lacewings to the cauldron. It looked… much like the time when they transformed into Crabbe and Goyle (and in the case of Hermione – a half cat). This should have been reassuring, if nothing else, it meant they got it right. Well: Hermione got it right. Then again, when did she not? She completed the potion, stirring it three times counter-clockwise, and the sludgy liquid took on an even worse look. 

‘Alright. We’re good to go now.’ She said, the remnants of tension shaking her voice. Harry passed her the vial, uncorking it first with one hand. She poured the potion in, carefully measuring out the dose, and stored the rest for… well, for next time. Harry tried to ignore the thought of a next time. It never seemed to go well, when Polyjuice was involved. Last time… last time they ended up flying a dragon. The time before, the Ministry. And before…

Well, before Hedwig had died. And Moody. And George’s ear was taken off. 

‘All we need now is his hair. Or toenail, or… or something like that.’ Ron made a muffled choked sound at the thought. Not like he was the one to drink it!

‘We know, ‘Mione,’ Ron grumbled, hiding just how impressed he was with her abilities. Even after 8 years, the extent with which she could do just about anything startled and perplexed him, although recently even more so than ever. Harry smiled covertly at his best mate, remembering their conversation from the previous night. She’s brilliant, Harry, I’m telling you – she could be the Minister of Magic next year if she wanted, Ron gushed, and Harry wondered if he ever told her that to her face. 

Then came the time for the second part of their, loosely structured, plan, and if brewing an illegal potion in a girls’ bathroom for over a month was difficult, it was nothing compared to getting near enough to him to get a sample of his hair (or toenail, or something) without raising suspicions. 

Tensions rose as time passed and no apparent opportunity presented itself. Ron looked paler and paler, freckles striking against the skin. Hermione wound her hair over and over around her wand absentmindedly, making it bushier than ever and sending frazzled sparks of magic into the air. Harry… well, he wasn’t proud of it, but the temper he’d been working hard on controlling since the war had ended was sneaking up on him and emerging in tides of rage at the smallest of things. When, about a week after completing the potion, he shouted at Hermione for letting Crookshanks sleep on “his” side of the sofa, they decided it was high time for action. 

Luck finally struck when Harry spotted him after Quidditch practice. They no longer flew for the house teams, being older than other students, but there was nothing stopping them from enjoying a casual flight in the setting sun. Harry stalked over, following the silver-blond hair towards the showers. His Invisibility Cloak too small now to hide the three of them, Harry was all alone as he followed the man into the changing rooms. 

It was a creepy thing to do, really, and he pushed the thought away as fast as it appeared. He wasn’t there to watch Malfoy shower. It was just a- a necessity of circumstances. Harry averted his gaze, face tinged pink, as Malfoy run the water and started undressing. There was nothing to it. He saw many a man in the showers; it’s what happened when you were a part of a sports team or living in a shared dormitory. Usually however, he wasn’t hiding under the Cloak. 

Usually, it wasn’t Malfoy. 

The git was taking an extraordinary amount of time under the shower, and Harry wanted to walk away, forget about the whole thing, admit defeat, and he almost did, just as the water shut off and he heard the rustle of towels and clothes from behind him. He waited until Malfoy left, relief flooding over him. Not being discovered lurking in the Slytherin changing rooms had its plusses. 

It was simple to pick Malfoys hair out of the cubicle, the striking blond unmistakable, but the ease of it didn’t account for just how utterly disgusting touching discarded wet hair was, and Harry struggled against nausea as he stuffed it into a prepared vial.   
He showed it to Ron and Hermione with triumph, ignoring the questions of how, knowing full well he could have simply waited outside for Malfoy to finish washing and then follow in for his find. 

‘Bloody brilliant, Harry,’ Ron pitched in, excitement of action vanishing the trepidation of prior week, ‘what do you think it’ll look like?’ Ron pondered, and Harry found himself snorting, half in respite half in amusement. 

‘Remember in second year? They were all sort of… murky,’ Hermione wondered out loud. ‘Then your one, Harry – that was gold.’ Harry felt himself go red at the memory, but Hermione continued, ‘Bellatrix, hers was so dark it was almost black. Tasted vile, too.’   
Ron and Harry exchanged quick glances. Hermione talked about it as if it was nothing, but her hand distractedly found the scars on her arm of its own accord. They knew better than to try and comfort her now, the last time she let them know clearly how she was no damsel in distress, and not scarred for life. They let it go. 

‘I bet Malfoy’s is black. And tastes like snake skin, or something,’ Ron broke the sullen silence, voice full of sarcastic humour. 

Harry silently agreed, letting out a lough. ‘You’re not the one drinking it, mate! I don’t want to taste that.’

Hermione nodded along to their conversation, however her brow was creased ever so slightly, a dead giveaway that somewhere inside there, her brain was working double time, staying five steps ahead of everyone else. 

‘Remember Harry. You have to go to the Manor, behave like Malfoy, and see if you can get anything out of his mother.’ 

Harry groaned. He spent long enough watching Malfoy, over the years, but pretending to be the git in front of his own mother was not an easy feat. 

‘If she sees something’s off, just, you know, tell her you have a bad stomach. From all the new muggleborns in Hogwarts. I’m sure she’d buy that.’ 

As the evening came, the trio packed their bags. They were leaving Hogwarts for a weekend, under the pretext of visiting family. Fleur was very close to giving birth, and they had invited themselves to the Burrow for an in-case-it-happens-now visit. Harry would be joining them after a minor detour at the Malfoy Manor, unless he’d get himself hexed and killed first. 

The three of them stood in front of the fireplace, with McGonagall’s permission connected to the Floo network for the evening. Harry, dressed in the poshest clothes he owned, prepared himself mentally for what was to come as Hermione put the vial of Polyjuice Potion on the table and placed the single pale hair within. 

The potion frothed violently, emitting smoke. The original colour became lighter, the hue of mud turning into that of sand, until, out of nowhere, a potion of pure gold stood before them. The trio fell silent, eyes blinking, until Hermione snatched the vial up and examined it. 

‘Well, it was definitely the right hair…’ she said, voice perplexed. Not often did something stump Hermione, and Harry would have liked to revel in the moment, if he wasn’t feeling bewildered himself. 

‘Do you still want to go through with this?’ Ron was sceptical, but not against it, so Harry shrugged, took the potion from Hermione and downed it in one confused gulp. It hit his throat rather unpleasantly, and he grimaced, feeling his insides writhing, his skin bubbling like hot wax, rearranging itself into new features. His bones hurt with growing pains, limbs elongating just a touch but enough to make an impact. He doubled over, struggling against unconsciousness, until it all finished just as fast as it started. 

‘Merlin’s balls this is weird.’ Ron’s voice came in distant, his face distorted. Hermione delicately took the glasses of Harry’s face, and the world came back into focus. 

‘How are you feeling, Harry?’ she asked, and he only nodded in response, watching the long graceful fingers which now adorned his hands with fascination. 

‘I was half expecting I got the wrong hair,’ Hermione only smiled at him. It was a little sad, he noted, not certain why. Knowing, as usual – but sad. 

There wasn’t much time to ponder the strange turn of events. After all – what did it mean what colour the potion was. What did it mean that it was the same colour as Harry’s was, or that it wasn’t black and horrid as he expected it to be. It didn’t change the mission. It didn’t change that Lucius was at large, avoiding punishment, scheming somewhere in France how to bring back the values he upheld, without Voldemort at the rains. And Malfoy had to know – there was no question of it – he knew where his father was. 

Harry was sick of the war, and sick of the people trying to now profit from it. Although the scar on his head no longer throbbed with the thoughts of the other, this was still his fight to finish: if that meant he’d have to be Draco Malfoy for an hour then so be it.   
As the logical voice in his head (which sounded a lot like Hermione) reasoned all the arguments he laid out so clearly when he convinced his friends to help him with this mission he gave himself, he couldn’t help but notice an uncomfortable stirring of his insides, now completely unrelated to the potion. 

Maybe, just maybe, he had been wrong all along.


End file.
